


Lend Me Your Ears: The Full Story

by steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abuse, Complete, Expansion of a shorter fic, F/M, Gen, Miscarriage, contains rape, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb/pseuds/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The longer version of the vignette story, with more scenes and details.  This is the fuller story of Clint and his deaf life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I wanted to do a longer version of the short story "Lend Me Your Ears." So the vignettes that were in the short will be in this one (to a longer extent) and there will be additional ones to connect them together.

He is two minutes old, and he’s perfect.

His little tuft of light hair is plastered to his head, and his tiny mouth is wide open and giving his lungs their first work-out, but he’s so beautiful. His older brother is trying to clamber onto the bed to get a better look, and I’m trying to angle the baby so his brother can see but I just want to hug him close to me. After his brother is seated on the bed with me, he holds his hands up to his ears.

"He’s really loud, mama," he yells over the sound of the baby’s crying. My older son is five, going on 25, and starting kindergarten in a matter of weeks. In his overalls and messy sneakers he has one of his favorite toys stuffed in his pocket. After wrestling with the front pocket for a few seconds, he brings out his little Captain America action figure. It was the only toy my husband and I could afford to give him for his birthday. "Maybe he will like it if I give him my toys."

The baby is blinking at the bright lights but quieting somewhat, until the little action figure is shoved in his face. "Here, baby, this will make you feel better," whispers my little boy. "Mama, what’s his name?"

My husband and I had a number of names picked out, but since Harold was currently at the store he couldn’t exactly add input to our second son’s name. Besides our new little boy in no way resembled a Michael or Justin, neither of which I liked to begin with. No, he needed something new.

"Let’s see," I said, laying the baby in my lap so Barney could see him. "What do you think we should call him?"

Barney looked at his toy and then back at the baby. "He doesn’t look like Captain America so I don’t think we can call him Captain America Barton."

I tried not to giggle at my son’s suggestion but the idea was too cute. Instead I played with his mop of brown hair. Barney looked every bit like his father, from his dark messy hair to his square chin. "Who does he look like then, honey?"

Barney peered into the baby’s face and moved to poke his tiny cheeks, but I veered his hand away. The older boy considered the question while carefully stroking the baby’s nearly non-existent hair. "He looks like Grandpa Frank."

I could see where he gathered the idea; the baby’s nose resembled my father, and his angular face definitely came from my side of the family. But my father Franklin’s name only worked with my family’s last name (Debord), not with Barton. Franklin Barton sounded clunky.

"How about Francis?"

My son nearly fell off the bed giggling. “But mama, that’s a girl’s name!"

"Oh, hush," I cooed, pulling the baby’s blanket tighter. "Fine, that can be his middle name. What should his first name be?"

"Alcatraz."

I furrowed my eyebrows for a moment before I remembered that a few weeks ago I waddled into the movie theaters with Barney to see _Escape from Alcatraz._ A customer at our store dropped a five-dollar bill and never claimed it, so I took Barney to see whatever was playing at the matinee that day. He was so enraptured of the movie theater itself that he hardly sat still through the movie proper. Harold would never be happy if he found out that I did not immediately turn over the bill to the cash drawer, so it remained a secret between myself and our little boy.

For a moment, the baby puckered his lips and squinted, and I could feel his tiny arms trying to stretch their way out of the tightly swaddled blanket. He looked just like the main character from the movie.

"What about Clinton? He was the main character in the movie we saw."

Barney clenched his eyebrows together, going over what details he could remember. His hopelessly large brown eyes showed his confusion. "Nuh uh, because he had the same name as Grandpa Frank."

"No, honey, that was the character’s name. The person who pretends to be him is named Clint Eastwood."

Barney nodded as if he understood perfectly (but I know my son, and the explanation went right over his head), until he looked down at his toy and maneuvered the arms into various positions. He was obviously bored with the task of naming his baby brother.

"Clinton Francis Barton…what do you think, honey?"

Barney scooted himself up to the baby and leaned in close again, inspecting his tiny face to make sure the name fit. By now the baby was completely quiet, his dark eyes drooping. "Cliiiiiiin-tun," Barney called, as if addressing a puppy. "Cliiiiiiint, it’s your bubby."

After a few more attempts, Barney sat back on the bed with a very dejected look on his face. "I don’t think he’s listening to me, mommy."

I gestured for him to curl up next to me, laying my head against his and kissing his thin brown hair. "Don’t worry, my handsome boy; he just likes listening to you so much he feels safe, so he’s taking a nap. Like how you feel safe with your Captain America toy when you go to bed."

Barney nodded and hugged his little toy tighter. "I can stay with him until he falls asleep then and I can bring Captain America. That way we both feel safe."


	2. Chapter 2

He’s two years old and he keeps stealing my crayons.

But I really need them because my teacher wants me to draw a picture of my family but I can’t because he keeps stealing them. Mama said we can’t buy new ones or Dad will get mad so I really try hard to keep him from stealing them, I really do try hard, but he’s two and he doesn’t listen.

Mama said I have to make sure he doesn’t draw on the walls again or Dad will get really mad. One time he drew all over our wall in our room and when Dad caught him drawing he grabbed his shirt and threw him against the wall. Clint cried a whole lot but then Dad hit the side of his head so he stopped. The wall made his ear bleed and when Dad hit him he fell asleep for a few minutes. 

I think Clint is stupid. Not bad-stupid but stupid like those kids at school who are in their own room and don’t do real school because he doesn’t listen to people when they talk to him. Mama said it’s because he’s 2 and 2 year olds don’t listen but sometimes I will tell him something and he doesn’t do it. One time I told him to go away and give me back my truck but he kept playing with it and wouldn’t even look at me. Then when I took my truck back he started crying and I got in trouble. 

Dad gets mad that he doesn’t talk yet and he yells at Mom and says Barney wouldn’t shut the fudge up when he was two (but I’m not allowed to say what fudge really means or I get in trouble). Then he tells Clint to say something and Clint just makes stupid noises and Dad hits his mouth for doing that. But I know he can say some things because he can say “Baba" and I think that’s supposed to be my name. Or maybe he’s saying Bubby because that’s what Mama calls me sometimes. I don’t know because he won’t say it right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains rape, and is written from the rapist's point of view.

He’s eight. I think. I don’t give a fuck.

Doesn’t matter anyway, the kid’s retarded. At least the older one is somewhat smart. If anything he does what I tell him, the younger one just looks at me like an idiot when I tell him to do something.

And if their mother was smart she’d open her fucking legs like I told her. 

Christ, sometimes she’s as hard-headed as the little dumbfuck she squeezed out eight years ago. I didn’t even want those little bastards; we can’t afford them. Then Edith went and gave the older one my middle name so I guess I’m stuck with him. 

When I finally get her to fucking cooperate and quiet down I slam into her pussy so hard the bed puts a dent in the wall. I don’t care; those fuckers I have to call my kids put too many holes in the walls to count. I tell the younger one to do as he’s told, and when he doesn’t (which is usually what happens) he needs to be punished, so some of the holes are from his head or something. 

She deserves it, anyway. She had these kids I don’t even want, so she deserves to be fucked. I don’t care if she says it hurts, her cunt will heal. My money won’t. Thanks to her I have to feed two more people that I don’t have the money for. And since she won’t let me fuck her willingly sometimes I have to make her do as she’s told. So its her fault, really.

She finally shuts up so I can finish fucking her, but by that point I’m so tired of trying to get her to hold still when I finally come I don’t even feel satisfied. And when I’m zipping up my pants and buttoning my shirt back up she’s just laying there. I don’t care, half the time she’s useless anyway and I have a store to run downstairs. 

The younger one is supposed to be watching the door, and whenever someone walks in he’s supposed to tell the older one. But when I get downstairs the little fucker is sitting on the floor behind the counter, not even looking at the door, and the older one is dicking around somewhere else. God only knows where. I’m looking around for him when I notice the cash register open.

"What the fuck—Clint, where the fuck are you?" 

I know where he is, but he doesn’t look at me. He just keeps drawing on old receipts and bills. The drawer is practically empty; the tray is popped up and the large bills I kept underneath are gone, including every bill except a few ones. Whoever took the money didn’t bother with the change.

When I grab Clint’s shirt collar he acts surprised and tries to squirm away, but this is his fault. "How the fuck did you let this happen, huh?!" I don’t care if the neighbors hear me screaming at him, or that when I shake him his head bashes up against the counter. "Were you even listening for the bell?"

The bell we keep over the main entrance is plenty loud, but apparently my little cum-stain is too good to listen for it. If Edith wasn’t making so much noise when I was trying to fuck her I probably would’ve heard it upstairs. The money I made today was supposed to pay the utility bill on the store, so now the electric will probably be turned off. But I can’t afford to close the store, so I’ll have to take the money from the kids’ food. They eat at school, that’s all they need.

Clint isn’t answering me, he’s just crying and trying to get away. So I throw him at the register and he smashes his face into it. He either gives up entirely or he knocked himself out, I don’t give a fuck. I’m too mad to even remotely care.

Fuck all of this. I need a drink.


	4. Chapter 4

He’s eight, and I still kiss him good night.

I’m tucking Clint in after holding a towel full of ice to his head for an hour. His tears have stopped, he’s staring at the door and waiting for his dad to burst in at any moment. His teachers have told me that he’s mentally slow and that he most likely will never make it through school, but I know my baby boy. What he lacks in clear speech he makes up for in compassion, and I know he tries so hard to keep up with everything at school. And he may never catch up entirely, but to me he is still perfect.

His blond hair is sticking to his forehead, and his face is hot save for the spot where I laid the towel. A large purple bruise is forming on his scalp, barely visible due to his messy hair. Harold always managed to leave a mark on my babies where no one else could see. Clint has so many cuts and scars on his body that his shirts cover, including a burn underneath his armpit that still tore open every so often and oozes after playing too hard with his brother. He understands pain and he understands love; because of this I know that he can learn. I believe in my baby’s abilities.

Harold and I are going to a party for the neighborhood’s various businesses, something we do every quarter to discuss money and finances. We are typically the last to arrive, and the only ones with young children. All the others’ kids have grown and moved on, so there are no others for the boys to play with anymore; we stopped bringing them last year. Barney watches Clint well enough anyway, and at 13 years old he knows what to do in case of emergencies. Most likely Clint will just go to sleep, and Barney might stay up and read for a bit. 

I move to leave, but Clint tugs on my hand. "No, mama," he whines, trying his hardest to whisper. It’s something he really hasn’t grasped yet, but he’s improving slowly. “‘tay." His speech impediment makes him difficult to understand sometimes, but I can understand my son. Honestly I don’t think his teachers try hard enough to work with him. I lean down to kiss his head and tuck his blankets in tighter. He understands facial expressions and everyday gestures, so when I shake my head his little face just crumples. He withdraws again and stares at the door, hugging Barney’s old Captain America toy.

"I’m sorry, my brave boy," I tell him. "Just close your eyes, and when you wake up I’ll be home again. And whenever you miss me, I’m in your dreams." He narrows his eyes, trying to process everything I told him. Sometimes he understands everything, other times he may only grasp the intent or the urgency of what someone tells him. But my son knows pain and he knows love, and as long as I can get him to understand that he is loved he is entirely perfect.

He hunkers down in his blanket, stifling a yawn. The throttling Harold gave him wore him out, and while his bedtime is usually much later he laid down right after supper and barely moved since. I know he’s tired; even though he can barely say ten words clearly he is great at expressing his emotions and wants. 

I lean in close to his face again, kissing the tip of his nose. "Mama loves you, sweetie." The corners of his mouth turn up, just barely, and he moves his mouth and makes near unintelligible noises but I can understand him. Love you, too, mommy. "Lav do too, mawmuh."

When he closes his eyes, I move from the bed and go to check on Barney. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter reading a book, his supper still not finished. I stroke the back of his thick brown hair and kiss the side of his cheek. "Don’t stay up too late, my love. We’ll be back in a few hours, okay? I love you."

He giggles and tries to squirm away from my kiss, but he gives in after a moment. Harold stomps his way into the kitchen reeking of whiskey just as I am letting go of Barney. His face is disheveled and his shirt is wrinkled, and almost instantaneously the smile on our son’s face disappears. 

"Either eat or get up from the fucking table, dammit," Harold grumbles, taking Barney’s plate and throwing the entire thing in the trash. "Fucking kids waste all our food, for fuck’s sake, and…" The kitchen door that leads to the driveway slams behind him, taking his curses with him. Barney stares down at his book, too afraid to move.

"There’s some leftover green beans in the pot; I put it in the stove so your father wouldn’t eat them all. If Clint is still awake in a bit and he gets hungry, give him some-"

"Edith! Get in the fucking car!" Harold is screaming and slamming one of the car doors, and before he is able to walk back into the house I bolt out the door. He climbs back into the driver’s seat, turns the key over, and jerkingly maneuvers onto the street. In such a confined space, the whiskey smell becomes putrid.

He narrowly avoids cars parked on the side of the road, and once he gets to the stop sign Harold doesn’t wait for other cars to pass. After the other car slams on its brakes and honks, Harold flips them off and continues driving. He’s muttering to himself. "After all that happened you still want to go to a goddamn party, this is bullshit…"

I know I should take my boys away from him. I know that he is an ugly human being, that he should never treat me or my children the way that he does. But I have nowhere to take them; my father simply doesn’t have the room to take me in as well as two growing boys. Harold would know our location anyway, and the same would hold true if I took them to a friend’s house. My boys are the two most important people in my life and I would die for them. But without steady employment or a place to stay, they would suffer even more. Once I start to show with this new baby, after I tell my boys about their new brother or sister, then I'll take all three of them away. And if this little one is anything like the boys, he or she won't be noticeable until I'm almost three months along. I will probably tell Barney and Clint sooner than that, though. Maybe tonight after we get back, or tomorrow morning after I make their breakfast. Harold will just drink himself to sleep so he won't wake up until late tomorrow morning or early afternoon.

The car is approaching the speed limit for the neighborhood, and I clench my hands together. "Harold, you’re going too fast."

He’s too angry to even bother listening to me and as the whine of the engine increases I tug my seatbelt even tighter. The alcohol makes me want to vomit, and his reckless driving causes my stomach to knot itself. He swerves all over the road, overcorrecting the wheel at the last second to avoid other cars. "Harold, please, slow down!"

But he is in his own mind at that moment, grunting a response. His chest hitches in a belch, spewing more of the stale alcohol scent from his mouth. I grip the stability handle on the door and bite my lip; as he continues to speed, my mind grows frantic and disconnected.

_Harold please stop this is too fast, please I just want to get home to my babies, we can skip the party. Please just slow down Harold I’m begging you Harold enough of this I just want to go home and be with my boys, Harold watch out for that tree up ahead HaroldHaroldSTOP Harold plea_


	5. Chapter 5

He is ten years old, today is his birthday, and today we are getting out of here.

After the nuns give Clint his birthday present, I mean. It will probably be something meant for one of the little kids because the nuns are pretty sure he’s retarded. They gave him a bear or something last year, and after he opened it and the nuns left, Clint looked at me as if to say _seriously?._ Afterwards he drew a picture of a baby, pointed to himself, then the picture, and shook his head. _I’m not a baby._

Sometimes Clint is really smart, other times he just doesn’t get it. Words don’t connect in his brain, I think, or something is blocking them. If I talk slowly enough and kinda yell at him sometimes he will understand me. And he can talk but sometimes it’s difficult to understand. I can understand him, but I think it’s only because I’m stuck with him.

Someone wanted to adopt me about two months ago, but I wouldn’t go unless Clint went with me. The couple spent about half an hour with him then decided to leave. “Brothers are hard enough to handle," the dad said. “But we can’t take care of the handicapped one." I hate when people call him that; I know he’s broken but when people use that word it feels like he will be broken forever. Before Mama died she could teach him things, so I know he can learn. It just takes him a lot longer.

I know that he misses our mom. He misses her tucking him in at night; I know that because he tries to tuck himself in the same way she did to us when she was alive. At first I don’t think he really understood what happened because he would randomly ask “where Mawmuh" throughout the day. But now he doesn’t and I think he knows she’s never coming back.

The nuns don’t really like it when he talks because he doesn’t say things right, so they sometimes smack his face with a ruler if he says things wrong. Then they make him repeat whatever he said until he gets it right but some things he never does. He can say little words like yes, no, where, what, and why. Occasionally he can say Barney, but he still calls me Bubba and I’m okay with that. But I’m afraid that he will stop talking completely if the nuns keep hitting him, and they’ve given up on trying to teach him like everyone else. He’s behind but I’m trying to help him catch up, and sometimes I don’t finish all my homework because I’m trying to help him learn to multiply single digits. The rest of his class is working on fractions. My class is doing geometry.

Other kids in the orphanage make fun of him when he’s not paying attention. They giggle at him when the nuns call on him and he doesn’t answer or when he tries to say something and says it wrong. Sometimes Clint gets so wrapped up in whatever he is doing, usually daydreaming, that he doesn’t notice the other kids making faces or calling him names behind his back. I’ve gotten in trouble for fighting with the other kids because of things they said or when they laughed at him.

Since today is his birthday they’ve all been nicer to him, at least a little bit. At the orphanage whenever there is a birthday the nuns make something sweet for after dinner (today they made cookies), and before we clean up we sing that annoying birthday song to him. A few of the kids giggle and make comments at how Clint just sits there watching everyone’s mouths. He knows its his birthday but he doesn’t understand what the song is for. It took a while but he knows that every year on one specific day he becomes the next number; I didn’t think he understood until he went through one of the nun’s calendars and wrote “CLINT 10" on June 18th of this year, then “CLINT 11" on the same day next year. He did the same for my birthday, and a few of the other kids, so I know he is capable of understanding abstract things.

One of the nuns puts her hand on his head and says a blessing, thanking God for allowing Clint to share his birthday with us. Or something like that, I didn’t really pay attention or it. I was too busy trying to plan how we are going to escape tonight. After the blessing they give him his gift, and he opens it slowly until he sees that it’s a blank book for him to draw in, then he shreds the rest of the paper in about four seconds. Most of the time instead of saying complete sentences he will draw what he wants to say then add in a few words. He can write his name and knows that the letters C-L-I-N-T refer to himself, or that “Barney" refers to me. Just to be sure sometimes I will write down a word and he will draw what it is, or I’ll draw something and he writes the word. And I don’t even go easy on him or use baby words; he knows that when I write “window" that it refers to something specific. I’ve used bigger words than that, or really odd ones, and he gets them right.

By the time dinner is cleared and everybody goes back to their routines I have the entire plan mapped out. I suck at art, but I manage to draw a picture of Clint’s backpack with and arrow pointing to the inside, then a few pictures of things I know he will need. He nods and starts stuffing the list of necessities in the bag, and I draw out the escape plan for him. In the middle of my drawing he stops me and looks really confused. “Why?"

But what should I tell him? The people who go shopping for kids at the orphanage only want puppies, they don’t want the older kids. We are too broken, too damaged, and if we made it so far without being adopted then there’s something wrong with us. The little kids get adopted quickly, and the way I see it, if we leave tonight we are just sparing ourselves years of rejection. I have to give him an answer though. “We are not home here."

He squints for a second then nods, going back to packing. On the way home from school I saw signs for a traveling circus that we are going to run to; so many kids probably get lost at a circus that if we showed up without parents they probably wouldn’t even think twice about it. And we can work, so if they let us stay then they don’t have to pay us. We just need to get to the next town over and we are free.

With our bags packed, I go over the plan with him. He sits next to me looking at the pictures I drew, and I talk slowly so he understands. We will wait until 10 (lights out at 9 so everyone will be asleep by then) and quietly sneak out the back door. Then we run as fast as possible through the woods, turn left by the river, and follow it for about two miles. That should lead us to the field across from the circus. Clint nods then picks up the nearest colored pencil, writing above the circus tent I drew.

_Home._


	6. Chapter 6

He’s 11 and swinging his feet even though I told him to stop ten minutes ago.

We’ve been waiting in the audiologist’s office for about half an hour, and I can see that Clinton is bored. He wants to go back to my carnival and practice with his bow, but this appointment is too important for him to miss. I considered bringing his brother Bernard but there was simply too much work to do at the carnival site and pulling Clinton away already meant losing one pair of hands.

I suspected something was wrong with his hearing about a week after his arrival nearly a year ago. The way he stared at someone’s mouth when they spoke to him, and how it was much easier for him to understand something if there was not a lot of visual noise behind whoever was speaking to him. How he never woke to the breakfast bell in the morning even though the boys’ tent was extremely close to the mess tent. How he could almost say some words clearly.

When the audiologist calls us back, I take his hand and tug him along into her office. He’s at least twice my height (Bernard is taller) so I know once he hits a growth spurt he will most likely be tall. My daughter Marcella did the same thing around his age; my baby girl seemingly became a young woman in only a year. To be fair, I just barely reach four feet.

Other visitors are staring at us, and Clinton looks at them with defiance. I will say one thing about the boy, he is _fiercely_ loyal to anyone who treats him well. People have stared at me my entire life, and after 60 years I no longer pay attention to them. One of my legs is four inches longer than the other, my trunk is disproportionate, and what hair I have on my head grows in patches. But Clinton knows if he ever tries to do something for me that I can do myself, I’ll whack his knee with my cane

Poor Bernard got the worst of it when they first arrived. When one of my jugglers reported some stowaway boys in the back of one of our carts, I halted the procession and made them get out so I could see them. Bernard told me their names, saying everything for Clinton, who was busy looking at the rest of the group forming a circle around them.

"This one doesn’t speak?" I inched close to Clinton, looking at the bruises along his face. Most people, upon first meeting me, regard me with either pity of disgust; Clint stared back at me as if he was around people like me all the time.

"Not really," Bernard said. “He can say some things but most people think he’s retarded."

And so I nearly took out Bernard’s knee cap with my cane. “If you ever call him that again you’ll be shoveling elephant shit with your hands instead of a shovel, do you understand me, boy?" When he nodded, holding his knee and blinking back tears, I told them to get back in the cart so we could get moving again. Since then, Bernard has only been punished twice for calling his brother something similar.

Clinton has had his share of punishments as well, mostly for being defiant and back-talking me. I’ve never punished him for mispronouncing something, or because he doesn’t know an answer; even if he is slow, he’s not incapable of learning. He just goes about it in a different way. He repeats and copies what others do with precision, which is one reason Buck (our sharpshooter) took him on as an apprentice. Even though Clinton is yet to hit a bullseye, according to Chisholm he was able to replicate the proper shooting form in a matter of hours. And if I ever catch one of my carnies calling Clinton a name or hitting either of the boys in any way, that carnie is on latrine duty for a week. Based on what Bernard told me about their parents, I won’t allow anyone to harm them in any way.

In the doctor’s office, she’s drawing lines all over a grid of some kind. “Alright, Mr. Carson, what I have here is a copy of Clinton’s audiogram. These triangles represent approximate thresholds for what he can hear and what he can’t." I’m looking at the chart and its population of triangles and symbols. This is the first time I have ever seen such a thing, so it means next to nothing to me.

"I honestly have no idea what I’m looking at," I tell her. Clinton is looking at the chart too, but anything that remotely looks mathematical he hates so his attention drifts abut ten seconds later.

The doctor points to the lowest triangle on the chart. “Your son is missing about 60 percent of his hearing in his right ear, and about 65 in his left. So when someone shouts at him, he can hear most of what is said, but regular speech and similar noises are too soft for him. What I don’t understand, Mr. Carson, is how he is 11 years old and you are just _now_ discovering this."

Clinton is swinging his feet again, and I motion for him to stop. “He didn’t come to me until he was 10, and beforehand he was in a home with his brother. No one cared about him enough to investigate any further. They all thought he was just slow."

"Has there been any sort of abuse in his family?"

For a moment I felt a flash of anger, believing that she was accusing me of such a thing. “Not since I adopted the boys. I don’t allow anyone to hit either of him beyond light punishments, even then I prefer that they are put to work instead of anything physically painful. Why?"

The doctor flipped through a chart, landing on a picture of an ear. “See these bones right here? At some point they’ve been broken; they’ve healed back for the most part, but they’re also full of infection and fluids. It takes an extremely hard blow to break those bones."

Bernard has told me stories of their father, and suddenly everything clicked into place. Their father would beat the side of their heads or throw them into walls. Their father hit Clinton so hard in the side of his head his ear bled, according to Bernard. And they must still hurt; Clinton tugs and presses on his ears all the time.

If their father was still alive, I could’ve killed him myself.

But right now I had to control my anger. “What can you do to fix them?"

The doctor leaned back in chair and considered the options. “Surgery could restore nearly all of his hearing. It wouldn’t completely fix the bone the infection rotted away, but he would have relatively normal hearing."

"How much would that cost?"

"Depending on hospital bills and their requirements, about $40,000. But insurance would cover it."

Insurance. Something we don’t have, and could never afford. I’m not sure we could insure anyone at the carnival regardless; we move so much, and since the boys were never legally adopted by me, it’d be difficult to prove they are actually my children. For Clinton’s hearing appointments alone I paid with the funds from the freak show. “Is there anything else that can be done?"

She pointed to a little display that Clinton was busy fiddling with. “You can put him in basic hearing aids. They wouldn’t remove the infection or anything but he could certainly hear more than he’s hearing now."

"How much are they?"

"About $1,300 for each side."

I folded my hands and tried to do some quick math in my head. They are certainly more affordable than surgery, but that kind of money is out of my reach at the moment. After paying my crew and the costs of running the show, we are only left with a handful of dollars at the end of the month. Both options are unobtainable at the moment. “Right," I say, slowly. “It’s not something we can afford at the moment. But when I can, can I bring him back?"

"Sure. His hearing won’t change much in the next year or two, unless the infection returns. We can make another appointment for next year and go from there."

I nod, and the doctor shakes our hands. We go back out to the waiting room and set up another appointment near his twelfth birthday, I pay the appointment bill in ones, and we go back to the bus stop.

That is when the tears finally spill out over my cheeks. It’s so frustrating; I now know what’s wrong with him, and I figured it out within a week. People who knew him for years never cared enough about him to think he was capable of anything beyond “retarded." But he just simply can’t hear everything. That’s all it is.

Clinton notices me wiping my eyes and points to my cheek where tear tracks are reflecting in the sun. “Why?"

I smile back as best I can and consciously annunciate what I want to say. “Because, my son, I would do everything in the world to help you hear, but right now I simply can’t." He squints a little and nods, but before he can say anything else the bus pulls up.

———————-

He just turned twelve last week. We are sitting in the doctors office once again, and I am holding two sacks of ten-dollar bills. One for the left ear, one for the right. For the next month, the entire carnival has agreed to eat little more than red beans and rice.

But in two weeks, whenever Clinton’s hearing aids come in, he will be able to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm 12 years old, and today is the first day I have ever heard my name clearly.

At first I don't actually recognize that the doctor is saying my name because I am busy trying to comprehend why there is suddenly _so much noise_. The things she shoved into my ears are heavy and feel full, and I want to scratch at them but Mr. Carson gives me a disapproving look every time I reach for them.

The doctor motions for me to keep looking at Mr. Carson, and I jump half a foot in the air when she rattles something behind my head. When I turn around to look at whatever the noise is, the doctor smiles at me. "Great, they're working just fine," she says. Mr. Carson beams at me.

She sits down in front of me again and moves my chin so I focus on her face again. "Clint."

But that means gibberish to me. Everything she says is just gibberish, at least it does until she writes my name on a piece of paper. I can write my own name, and I know that those letters mean me. She finishes writing and holds the paper up so I can see both my name and her face. "Clint," she says again. And again. And a third time. She keeps saying it over and over again until she finally puts the paper down and simply points at me, and that's when I finally get it.

Those letters make a specific sound, and those specific sounds make up my name.

So I try it out myself. _"Kidt,"_ I say, and I frown. The way I said it doesn't sound the same way the doctor said it. But she smiles anyway and nods at me. And Mr. Carson is so happy he looks as though he's about to jump out of the chair and dance.

When she goes back to her desk, she reaches underneath it and pulls out a small box of toys. I know I'm too old for them, but she hands the box to me anyway and shows me what to do with them. They make different noises, everything from a whistle to a bell to sandpaper. She holds something up to my ear and wriggles it so it makes a _clack_ noise, and I scare myself when it makes me laugh. I've never actually heard myself laugh before. The box is supposed to keep me occupied for a moment while she chats with Mr. Carson. As she starts speaking, I follow the sound and look up almost immediately. Mr. Carson rubs my shoulder with pride.

"It'll take a few weeks before he gets used to listening to things. He may be twelve but his ears are basically like a newborns, because up until now everything he's heard has been non-existent or distorted. And at first it may take him a while to connect some words to whatever it is you're referring to, but luckily in kids they adapt quickly. Patience is the most important factor here."

When I rub at my ear again, Mr. Carson grabs my hand and holds it. I continue to make random noises with the toys from the box with my other hand. "Does he wear them to bed?"

"Oh, no, not at all. They go back in a little case at night. They also can't get wet, so don't let him wear them in the bath. And it seems counter-intuitive but for the first week or two, try to gradually build him up to wearing them all day. Hearing aids only make noises louder, they certainly don't make sense of the noises for him, so at first he may get overwhelmed. He's going from little noise to an entire world full of sound, and in some patients that is difficult to handle. If he wants to wear them longer that's fine, but don't force him."

Mr. Carson is nodding away while I am listening to a little toy bird tweet. Do real birds sound like that? What about other animals? Once Tina, the main elephant at the carnival, raised her enormous trunk and let out some kind of sound that I could hear some of, but I wondered if it would sound different now that I could actually hear her. What do I sound like? What does Barney sound like?

I wanted to go back to the carnival and just listen to everything. I wanted to bang on the big top's drum and get Sher-khan, our tiger, to roar at me for some raw meat treats. And above all I just wanted to talk to my brother. When the doctor stands I put everything back in the box and help Mr. Carson to his feet. We shake her hand again and she waves at me as she closes the door behind us. Just the change in rooms sounds drastically different, and it takes me a moment to adjust to all the bustle of the waiting room.

Outside, we sit at the bus stop and wait for the bus ride back to the street that leads to the carnival. I tap at everything within reach to generate a noise that I can use to form a new association. But when I look up again, Mr. Carson is crying and I worry he's sad again. I hold my head low in shame, because I probably messed something up, but he hugs my shoulder. "Don't worry, son, you didn't do a thing wrong. I'm only crying because I'm so damn proud of you."


	8. Chapter 8

He's 15. And it shows.

When I took on Clint as my apprentice, he initially followed me around like a puppy and did everything that was asked of him. Now that he's a teenager he has become quite a disappearing act, usually sneaking off to go hit on some of the girls with his older brother. Right now he's staring off into space with a grin that threatened to stretch to his ears. We're supposed to be practicing for tonight's shows, but unless I can keep his attention for more than ten seconds practice is all but useless.

"Hey, look at me," I tell him, ripping the bow out from underneath his chin so he will stop leaning on it. "What's the deal?"

The grin returns, as well as a very red face that crept up his neck from embarrassment. He scratched the back of his neck and then at the little rubber part in his ear that's attached to his hearing aid. "I kissed a girl las' night."

In the three years since the carnival managed to buy a pair of hearing aids for the kid, his speech has improved dramatically. He went from a little boy who could barely string together a sentence coherently to talking up a storm as a teenager. Some words and letters still sound off, but the majority of people he meets can now understand him. At first much of our communication was through gestures and pantomime, but now we only have to be sure he's looking at us and he can understand everything. When he starts missing things again someone has to check to make sure the little batteries are working, but for the most part he can figure it out. and knows when to change them.

I drop my head in my hand and groan to tease him, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "A girl, huh? Alright, spill it so we can get back to work and maybe you'll pay attention for a full minute."

His face lights up again and he runs his hand through his hair. "It was at the top of the Ferris wheel. Right before close."

"How'd you meet her?" None of the women who worked for Carson were young enough for Clint, although he sat around and oggled them right along with his brother.

"Barney 'roduce her to me."

I stopped him for just a moment. "Intro."

"Huh?"

"Introduced." Now that the kid could hear most things it was much easier to fix when he said something wrong. I could see the little gears working in his brain as he filed away the pronunciation for later. "So she was a townie."

"Yeah." The starry eyes are back in his head so I shove the bow back in his chest to snap him out of it again. He squints and looks at the target placed a few meters down the field and focuses his eyes. I stand behind him, poking him with my own bow before he can loose the arrow.

"Straighten up," I tell him. Clint pulls his shoulders back and squares himself, taking a deep breath. I've told him time and again to straighten up as he draws, but what Clint Barton lacks in hearing he sure as Hell makes up for it in hard-headedness. Hence the reason he keeps dropping his jaw for every townie girl his age that walks through our front arch. Those relationships last for only a few hours, not even a full night, and even though we've bitched at him about it he still tries to smooch one as often as he can. He's worse than his brother.

With the arrow nocked and drawn, he closes his eyes so I can put a blindfold over him in preparation for tonight's act. After a tap on the shoulder from me, he fires.

Even he can hear the thud of the arrow against the target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter because I'm exhausted and working nights now. I'm really active on tumblr though, so feel free to follow me (askclint.tumblr.com). You can also send questions and comments there, and a lot of times I'll post chapters there before I post them here just to get some quick feedback. And because the lamentations of my followers who read my stories gives me sustenance. 
> 
> -Steeb :D


	9. Chapter 9

He's 16 and can make his own goddamn choices.

I'm sick of this life and this carnival, of being known only as the great Hawkeye's big brother and cleaning up after his shows. I'm sick of sticking up for him and trying to teach him things. I spent so much time in school trying to keep him caught up with his class, time that I could have spent keeping my own grades up, when he doesn't even want to finish school. It's not fair, he's supposed to be the runt that everybody beats up on, and even after the Swordsman nearly killed him he still wants to keep doing shows. Well I'm done with it.

The only reason Clint is even so famous is because of the Swordsman, not Chisholm. If Mr. Dusquasne didn't ask Clint to play with a few knives then Clint would never have learned to aim at all. Clint got lucky, that's it. He should be kissing Mr. Duquesne's feet and dumping this stupid carnival. And Mr. Duquesne deserved the money he made from Carson; his "salary" (if you can even call if that) is pathetic. And Clint was an idiot for thinking he could rat on him. Even more stupid for chasing a guy who uses knives professionally up a rope that could easily be cut.

We have the opportunity to make something of ourselves now. We can finish school and start earning an actual living, not playing for tips every night in different cities throughout the country. In each city we whore ourselves out for a few hours, hoping to make enough to feed ourselves the next day. It's not a life, it's slavery. But I can't make Clint see that, all he wants to do is play with his stupid bow and do the shows for the rest of his life. Well screw that. I have plans and goals and things I want to accomplish, I don't want to spend my life taking care of my baby brother.

He's laying on his cot with a bag of ice over his knee. Even though the cast on his leg is off, it still becomes sore when he walks too much. Throughout the day he develops a limp that gradually grows worse and he has to sit every few hours. The doctor told him he can't practice with his bow but being the complete dumbass he is, Clint still spends hours practicing. Whatever. I'm done babying him.

"I'm getting out of here," I say, shoving the few clothes I have into a duffel bag. He sits up quickly and pulls my arm so I turn around and he can see my face.

"Huh?"

"I said I'm leaving. I'm done with all of this."

He stands up as quickly as his gimpy leg allows. "No you can't go, we have work to do. And Mishter Carton will get mad." Now he can say full sentences, but some letters he still pronounces wrong. Nobody really notices it anymore, and his long shaggy hair covers his hearing aids. He looks like a dirty hobo half the time. I prefer my hair kept shorter than his.

"After everything Carson did to Mr. Duquesne and you _still_ want to stay here? God, you're so stupid!"

Clint throws down his bag of ice and tries to look tough. "Don't call me that. And we don't owe Duquesne anything, he tried to kill me, for Chridt'takes."

"That was your fault for ratting on him. You know better that that, so I don't want to hear it. I have things I want to do, Clint. I want to finish school and get my GED, and I want to start over again and join the military or something. Not stay here the rest of my life taking care of my retarded baby brother."

He looks like he wants to punch me for all of a split second, then he's angry and hurt. Finally he just gives up and sits back down, looking at the floor of the tent. I'm not done telling him my plans though, but when I hold his chin so he looks at my face again he jerks away.

"Look at--look at me, dammit." I wait for his eyes to focus on my face. "There's a bus leaving tomorrow at 9:20. If you wanna go with me, be there before it leaves. If you wanna stay here and rot in a failing circus for the rest of your life, then stay here and rot. Either way I'm done taking care of you."

I let go of his face and he shoves me away. He hates it when people grab his face like that to get his attention but sometimes he's so hard-headed, it's necessary. As he leaves the tent he grabs his bow and flips me off on the way out.  
\------------  
It's 9:22 in the morning, twelve hours after I last saw Barney. I watch the bus pull away until it completely shrinks from view, taking my big brother with it. For the first time in my entire life, I'm completely without my Bubby.

I've never felt so empty. Even when I could barely hear, I never felt as empty as I do watching my brother leave me.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm 19 and sitting in a holding cell. 

The charges are completely bullshit, and if anything I was just trying to help, but the cops aren't listening to me. Some lady had her purse stolen and I took off after the guy, and when I got the purse back he pulled a gun on me and so I ran. The lady told the cops that _I_ took her bag since I was the only one she could see. Stupid bag, I hope she leaves it on a bus or something.

I've been sitting here for about two hours next to a guy who is passed out drunk and another who thinks I owe him a bag of weed. Every few minutes a cop walks by and tells the weed guy to quiet down, but then he continues to stare at me and mumble until he's worked himself into a frenzy again and shouting at me. Note to self: don't ever try to help people again. 

Maybe Barney could get me out. The last letter I got from him said he landed a job with the FBI, so I guess he finally made something of himself just like he wanted. Why he would want to completely abandon our home and go to a 9-to-5 gig every day is beyond me. At the carnival, I get up in the morning and do my chores, eat, practice a few hours, do two shows, then drink a bit or hunt for some pretty girls to charm; why would anyone want to give that up?

At least I did all that, until a cop shoved me in the back of a cruiser and left me to sit here for hours. He gave me a phone call, but not only do I have trouble with hearing people on the phone, the only other person who I could call doesn't own one. And I don't think I could call Mr. Carson from a jail cell. The disappointment would be too much, and I wouldn't be able to face him for a while even though I'm completely innocent.

My body is exhausted form trying to keep up with all the commotion. Between trying to understand cops who don't even try to grab my attention before speaking and the constant drone of the weed guy in my ear, I really jut want to take a nap. The cops yell things at me from the main booking desks, and when I don't answer they get up and scream through the bars at me. From so far away I can't see their faces easily, and most of what I hear from them is jargon that I've never heard before. It makes my brain and my body tired trying to understand so many people at once.

I go to close my eyes but one of the officers walks up to the cell and unlocks it. "Clinton Barton, you're free to go."

For a moment I look around just to make sure he means me, and seeing no one else move I nearly run screaming out of the cell. On the other side of the bars, the officer takes me to a discharge desk and processes some paperwork. "Why are you letting me go?"

The guard barely looks up at me. "Bails been posted."

From a few movies I've seen, I knew what that meant. Somebody paid somebody else, so now I can leave. "Do you know who paid it?"

"Some kind of agent," the guard shrugged. Needless to say, my stomach did a backflip: somehow Barney got wind that I'd been arrested and has come to bail me out. Man, the guy worked fast. And after more than three years, I really wanted to see Barn. I missed him all the time, even though we didn't part on the best of terms. Since I last saw him I grew quite a bit, I'm much stronger and speak even more clearly than before. I wanted to talk to Barney so he knew.

I walk outside into the hallway and nearly tackle the only person the from excitement. He's wearing a black suit that's finely tailored and neat, his hair is styled to be functional rather than disheveled. Damn, Barn, the FBI gig treats you well.

But it's not Barney. As soon as he hears me, the new guy turns around and I can see he has one of the most unreadable faces I have ever come across.

"Clint Barton? I'm Phil Coulson, from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Lets go for a ride."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little chapter diverged a bit from the original story, only because when I did the logistics it made much more sense for Coulson to sneak his way into the story this way instead of like in the original. Plus Coulson is a sly dude, so him just moseying into the story seemed much more fitting of his personality.


	11. Chapter 11

He's been 21 for about three hours now and he hasn't stopped grumbling about not being able to go to a bar.

"Come on, Coulson," he whines into my ear piece. "Just for a few hours. Hell, I'll buy you a drink. What's your poison?"

Why he is even whining I will never understand; being underage has never stopped him from drinking or conning drinks from other agents. Despite the numerous reprimands for underage drinking and openly disobeying direct orders, he continues to drink and cause a commotion. Currently a stack of requisitions sits on his desk that he is yet to complete that all relate to the trouble he gets in to while drinking with other agents. Mostly requisition 33-735A: disorderly conduct due to intoxication from alcohol or mind-altering substances. 

I offered to help him complete the paperwork but Agent Barton usually finds something else that is suddenly important. He will never admit it but I know he has difficulty writing anything beyond his own name. According to a transcript of his initial intake interview his formal education ended around age 10, and even so, the inability to hear properly delayed him even further. The cognitive tests given to him were abysmal at best, but testing him again six months later showed a marked improvement. The first test showed his grade level to be somewhere around that of a 5th grader, but with a little work he is currently at the level of an average high school freshman. 

Testing him in an unconventional way showed that he is capable of learning just like everyone else, and he learns extremely quickly. A non-verbal IQ test, used primarily to test deaf individuals or those unable to speak, revealed that Agent Barton is a skilled tactician with above-average reasoning capabilities. He simply lacks a formal education or someone willing to work with him.

About a week after his arrival, when he learned that his test scores were keeping him out of the field, he agreed to a mental training regimen: for every hour he spent with a tutor (usually me), he was allowed that much time on the firing range. At first he could only bear an hour or two a day, but now he can study for six or seven hours at a time. Science topics are his least favorite subject, although at first he claimed it was mathematics. Now math is his preferred subject.

Currently he is training for his first field mission in a simulation, a staged tag-and-bag operation. All he needs to do is find the mark through a scope, tag that person, and leave without a trace. However, his whining is giving away his position.

"Agent Barton, I'm seriously considering disciplinary action for your lack of focus on this mission," I warn him over the comm. Through my ear piece I hear him nearly giggle.

"Relax, Coulson. This ain't even a real mission. And tell Sitwell he sucks as a mark; I've had I'm pegged for over an hour."

"Then why are you not proceeding?"

He hedges for a moment, and I can hear rustling through the comms. Suddenly a voice breaks through, Sitwell's, in a stream of curses.

"Dammit, Barton! That isn't funny," he's screaming. "Your ass is going to be in the brig for a week when we get back to HQ!"

But Barton is too busy laughing to care. "Sitwell, report," I say into the comms.

"Your little rescue puppy used some kind of ink arrow. My suit is completely ruined now, thanks to him."

Luckily Sitwell can't see me smirk; I know that varying from the prescribed mission outline is a punishable offense but unlike most people's opinion of me I am neither a robot nor made of stone. I can appreciate the humor in the thought of Sitwell covered in ink. For a moment, at any rate. I still have to discipline Barton.

"Agent Barton, we will discuss the details of your disciplinary actions in my office. Agent Sitwell, you are released."

Sitwell grumbles something over the comms, but it's too garbled to hear properly. Barton is still giggling away, and as we return to my office he continues to laugh as he exchanges his comm-connected hearing aids to standard ones. Once they are active, he drops himself into a chair at the edge of my desk and stretches out his legs.

"Coulson, come on, you gotta admit that was funny."

His face drops a little when he sees I am not (visibly) amused. "Regardless of its humor, it was still unnecessary and in no way related to the mission at hand. If this were a real mission, the consequences could've been dire."

Barton screws up his face for a moment. "Tire?"

"No, dire. D-I-R-E." He shakes his head, and I hand him a dictionary to look up the word. After perusing through the list of words he nods and slams the book shut.

"But it was just ink, not like anybody died or anything. Come on, sir, it's nearly four in the morning; either let me go crash or go get wasted. I only turn 21 once."

Before he moves to get up and leave, I shake my head. "Leave and I promise you that you will be cleaning the bottom of the mess hall serving counter every day for the next week while I read _Moby Dick_ out loud." Barton immediately drops back into his seat.

"You are the definition of cruelty, Coulson."

"Trust me, that would be going on easy on you. And no, you are not allowed to leave HQ for the rest of the night. Actions have consequences, Clint. Even though this was just a practice session, you are still held accountable for the things you do or do not do. If this were a real mission, our position would've been compromised and we would've most likely failed. Do you understand me?"

He nods after going over what I said to him in his mind. Even though his hearing aids are adjusted to where they need to be, he still occasionally has to check himself to see if he understood everything correctly. At first our communicant was strained only because I apparently do not emote as much as others. To compensate for to this I try to always face him and enunciate as much as possible without sounding ridiculous. Since I began doing so our communication is less frustrating.

I dismiss him after ordering him back to his quarters for the remainder of the night. He will be up again in two hours with the rest of the base (0600) to eat breakfast and acquire mission briefings, but as soon as I leave I fill out a requisition that disables his range access for the day. Even though he is an extremely head-strong person, he can learn. And sometimes unconventional measures are the best teaching methods.


	12. Chapter 12

I'm 24 and just waking up from surgery.

According to Coulson I have been trying to wake up for about an hour but I neither remember doing so nor wish to remember. SHIELD docs have informed me on multiple occasions that I'm definitely not their favorite patient; since we rarely had anything stronger than aspirin at the carnival my body simply doesn't tolerate medicine well.

The room is spinning too much so I don't bother trying to raise my head. Coulson is sitting in one corner flipping through paperwork, and Nat is in another chair across the room. Her shoulder-length hair is draped lazily across her face as she tries to snooze. The position looks uncomfortable, but I've seen her sleep on gravel when the need arose. Sleeping upright or in crazy positions is second nature to us now.

We've worked together for about a year at this point, and at first I honestly could not stand Natasha Romanoff. Her demeanor is so unreadable sometimes it drives me insane; in terms of personality she is practically my exact opposite. But apparently that is the exact reason Coulson put us together, because Coulson is an evil robot that just likes watching lesser people suffer. After a year of working with her though, I wouldn't have anyone else.

Nat is smart and beautiful and sexy and everything that I am not. She's curvy in all the right places and can use her sexuality like an atomic bomb and she knows it, which makes her one of the most dangerous people I've ever known. However, I don't think I could ever sleep with her. Sure, she's been the subject of no less than a few of my fantasies, but after some of the things we've seen together I honestly don't want to screw things up. She's equally as fucked up as I am, and I learned from Coulson that when you add two negatives together the answer is just more negative. At first I tried (believe me I tried to get with her) but now it's not something either of us would want to do.

We've "dated" as a front on a few missions, and we've even slept right next to each other completely nude but only because the heat was so unbearable that clothes made us miserable. But in terms of sex, sometimes I just can't get a read on her. Once she walked in on me jacking off in the shower and I couldn't tell if she liked what she saw or not. By that point it had been weeks since my last spank session and months since I hooked up with a girl so it was just like clearing out the pipes, really. She needed to brush her teeth or something, but I had my eyes closed and without my hearing aids in I could never hear the door open. So I stood in the shower stroking my cock with one hand and leaning against the wall with the other until I finally bricked, and when I opened my eyes I nearly fell out of the tub. But Nat just stood there brushing her teeth like it was completely normal, then left to finish getting ready.

I walked outside and put my hearing aids in so we could talk. "Sooo..."

"We're human beings, human beings masturbate," she said without any emotion whatsoever. "Don't worry, I do it, too."

And that was when I knew that I loved Natasha Romanoff. 

She is so wonderfully blunt and doesn't put up with my bullshit but can be as equally sarcastic. She is rules and logic and planning and I am nothing but a walking ball of ordered chaos. She's my complement, and it works for us. And I could never treat her like a one-night stand. 

The feeling must be mutual or else she would not be sitting in an uncomfortable chair as I am waking up from surgery. My head feels full of water and haziness, and I feel as though I want to fall over even though I am laying down. The drugs are turning my brain into a Tilt-a-Whirl. Even though my arms are moving, they feel disconnected from my brain. Coulson drops his papers as soon as he notices me trying to move a bit, and Nat wakes up to the sound of the papers hitting the desk. When I try to feel my head, she grabs at both of my hands. "Relax, Clint. You're okay, just relax."

"What....noise so loud turn it off..." I must be drooling or something because Nat is wiping at my chin with a towel. Morphine just doesn't treat me well. Coulson shuts the door to the room and the noise quiets considerably.

Usually when sounds become overwhelming I turn my hearing aids down or turn them off completely, so I go to remove them but my hands are met with scratchy bandages. Coulson takes my hand and places my hearing aids in them, but it doesn't immediately click that I am hearing things without them. Out of habit, I try to put them in my ears but can't with the bandages covering them.

"Why don't....Coulson they don't work fix them."

He grins at me with that smirk of his, the one that changes meaning depending on how you are feeling at that exact moment. "You don't need to wear them anymore," he tells me. "The doctors removed the tissue causing all that infectious fluid to build up in your inner ears. As of right now they believe you have relatively normal hearing."

Honestly if he told me that I had just won the lottery or that Barney was in the waiting room downstairs I probably would have reacted the same way, which is to say not at all. As drugged as I was, I had the same emotional reaction as if he read me the lunch menu. 

"Do you want some water or some juice? You're not allowed to eat just yet but you can drink something light," he says from across the room, pouring something into a glass. Nat is holding my leg to comfort me, but through the blankets her hand feels heavy. Every time I move to scratch at the bandages around my head she takes my hand and puts it back in my lap. With my eyes closed I could not tell what Coulson poured until I taste apple on my tongue, but my swallowing reflex must be taking a vacation or I fell asleep in the middle of doing so because the next moment Nat has me sitting up and leaning against her shoulder. She's pounding against my back as I choke on apple juice, of all things. I thought that after 24 years of eating I would at least be able to drink something properly.

Trying to expel a lung-full of juice makes me a little more coherent, and as Nat is asking me if I'm alright I notice that her voice sounds different. Less mechanical and much more natural. Like she is not speaking through a tiny microphone anymore.

That's when I make the connection. I'm not using my hearing aids to listen to things. All the noise is natural white-noise that people normally drown out and what my brain has not learned to do yet. Just to be sure, I open the little battery door to one of my hearing aids (which actually turns them off) and when I do the loudness of the noise doesn't diminish. They weren't even in my ears but for some reason in my loopy brain this logic made perfect sense to me. 

Nat helps me lay back against the pillow again, holding my hand while I try to process the sheer magnitude of _loud_ that I simply can't escape. It makes me anxious; I can't follow some of the sounds and some I never heard before, even with the hearing aids. I never knew that blankets made a sound when I moved my legs, or that the bed sounds different when people of two different weights sit on it. So for about ten minutes I laid back and listened to myself breathe to focus on one specific noise that I could control.

I open my eyes again and Nat is rubbing my shoulder. As the drugs wear off I start to feel sensation in my arms again, but they still feel very far away. My ears feel so odd without the plugged-up sensation of my ear molds, and I know that I should be happy to hear things naturally now but part of me feels a sense of loss. Maybe it was the drugs, but for a moment I felt as though I just lost a part of me. I worried and fretted over my hearing aids like they were my children sometimes, and other times I wished I could throw them off the nearest bridge. But now that I no longer needed them, a little piece of me felt excised. 

Coulson's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he ducks out quickly. When I yawn Natasha pulls the blanket up to my chest, almost like my mom did when I was just a squirt. She lowers the bed somewhat and keeps her hand on my arm until I drift off again.

The blankets and the way she rubs my arm makes me remember that I have never heard my mom's voice properly. And I never will. 

I cry myself to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

I am 26 years old, and today I am burying my big brother. 

It was his birthday less than six weeks ago, but in Waverly as soon as September hits the air becomes frigid in the mornings. And today is no different. Despite the sun that's glaring against the casket, my hands are shaking. I blow in them a few times to warm them up, but my joints feel sore. After so many years of practicing with my bow, I really don't have much sensation in the tips of my fingers but when its cold my joints turn into that of an old man's. Oh well. It's something to think about other than the fact that my brother is in a wooden box.

Some of the kids we knew in the orphanage are here, all grown up with their own lives. I recognize their faces but don't remember their voices since I never heard them in the first place. And Barney was always more popular with the other kids even though he fought with them over me all the time. The ones who remember me approach me slowly, probably unsure of my mental state. Last time I had any contact with them they all thought I was "retarded," so they probably don't expect much from me right now. A few come up to me cautiously, speak loudly and slowly even though I can now hear them just fine. When I say anything back to them their faces immediately show surprise and they speak quickly again, but right now my brain is just not firing fast enough to keep up with anybody. Five days is not enough time to process the death of your only relative. 

Everything went wrong that shouldn't have; Murphy's Law can go fuck itself. I did everything to make sure he was safe and out of harms way, but Barn was the one to get burned. His intel was sound, that Egghead was building some mass-extermination device that involved science way above my mental capabilities. When he came to the SHIELD with the intel I never expected SHIELD to actually let him go with us on the retrieval mission but Barney, always the smooth-talker, weaseled his way into the mission. And I did everything, _everything_ to keep him out of Egghead's way. But it wasn't enough and it'll never be enough and now he's gone and it's my fault. 

Egghead tested his stupid genocide ray-gun or whatever ridiculous sci-fi name he gave it and hit Barney square in the chest while his limbs and fingers were badly burned. The mortician asked me for a pair of gloves to cover his hands during the wake, so I gave him a pair of my old gloves from the carnival. They looked weird with the dark suit he was wearing, but Barney never looked good in a suit anyway.

In the past five days I've slept for all of about six hours. Between trying to read over so much paperwork (Coulson eventually just read it to me because my reading comprehension skills are still worth jack shit), and also dealing with Barney's accounts I simply haven't had time to sleep. At least for long periods of time. Sometimes I nod off in a chair but wake up again a few minutes later. There's so many people trying to talk to me all the time and so much commotion, so much noise, my mind wears out quickly. And when I'm not dealing with all of this funeral business I go out to the firing yard in the middle of the night and just practice until my fingers bleed. Because the only thing that makes sense to me right now is a giant circle that I can shoot at with pointy objects. Outside that circle, the world is just simply fucked up. That's all I understand right now.

People try talking to me but I don't feel like answering. Not right now. Not while it hurts. Maybe in a few more days I will. Because right now I am just trying to figure out why my bubby is gone. I've called his phone a few times just to hear his answering machine, and I've looked at the handful of pictures that exist of us when we were younger. Looking at them in order I can see where he begins to grow unhappy, and I remember that I caused part of it. 

Sure, I thought about joining him. I've sat in the bathtub in my apartment deep-throating a loaded .22, until Nat dropped by and brought me some food. Right now I don't even remember what it was, Chinese food or something. Doesn't matter. She sat with me for most of the night and made me nap for the longest stretch of time since Barney died (a whole two hours). Coulson taught me how to tie a necktie this morning before I left for the funeral parlor. 

The head-docs at SHIELD told me that it would help to say goodbye to him, but I was never good at that sort of thing. So I started writing something of a letter in my head with the intention that I would write it down later. I never did.

_Dear big brother,_

_I thought about recording all of this, but there isn't really a way for me to do so right now. So I'm writing it in my head._

_I'm sorry I did not have the chance to say goodbye. There are actually a lot of things I wish I wish I could tell you, but now I will never have the chance. I already miss you._

_Remember when we were little, when mom died you told me that she could talk to me in my dreams so I would go to sleep and not miss her so much. I bet you probably thought I didn't understand what you said, but I think I understood most of it. And even though I'm getting close to 30, I still believe she can and when I miss her I think about what you said._

_But I still don't understand why this happened, Barney. Why were you so stupid? You were always smarter, stronger, faster... why did you throw all of it away? You were going to join the army, go to college, make something of yourself. Were you just that unhappy?_

_I went up to your casket one last time but it just feels like an empty box. You aren't in there, Barney. I don't know where you are anymore. You were all that I had left; for good or bad, we always had each other, but now we do not have that anymore. Your face feels cold and fake, not like my big brother's. My big brother is not in there anymore. Where did you go?_

_I'm sorry I did not get to see you one last time outside of work. But maybe now you can see me from wherever you are. I'm sorry I was not there for you when I could've been. I know we had our problems, and yes we faught like every other person on the planet, but we always cared for one another. Whatever you did wrong or however I screwed something up, we were still brothers._

_Now we are driving you to the cemetery, right next to mom and dad. They wanted me to be a pallbearer, but I couldn't do it. So instead I'm walking in front of you. We have to take you to your new permanent home now. But with the lid closed it feels like more of an empty box than before. Maybe it's good that I could not see you like this; maybe seeing you would've made it too real._

_They asked me to say goodbye the final time before you are lowered into the ground. I didn't prepare a speech or anything, you know how bad I am with those sorts of things. And I wouldn't know what to say. What's left to say, anyway?_

_I'm wondering when they are going to fill in the date on mom and dad's tombstone, the one with our birthdays and then a blank space. I wish mom got to see us all grown up, or that she could hear what I sound like now. I wish I could've heard her tell her she loves us. I know she does. Tell mom I said hi._

_We have to leave now. There is a lot more that I wanted to say but something tells me you already know it all. If anything, thank you for being my big brother. I'm proud of everything you did to make the lives of everyone you love better. I've always loved my big brother and I always will. For better or worse, I'm proud I could walk in your shadow._

_Goodbye, Bubby._

_Love always,  
Clint_


	14. Chapter 14

Presentation: Mid-to-late-20s, male, caucasian, 217lbs, 6'3", arrived at 4:28AM by ambulance with apparent head trauma. Mid-to-late-20s female, caucasian, 168lbs, 5'8", arrived alongside male and taken to intensive care after stabilization. Bleeding from the ears in male suggests traumatic brain injury. Compressions and defibrillation given during transport to female, arrived in relatively stable condition. Female handed to Dr. Louise Sarver, acting head of ICU. Male remained in regular care. Pulse 86bpm and stabilizing, blood pressure normalizing, pupils responding to light but patient not responding to verbal cues.-Doctor David C. Hartford, M.D.

\--------------------

Update: According to male patient's identification card, his name is Clinton Francis Barton, age 28, birthdate June 18. ID registered in Waverly, Iowa. As of 6:24AM he is awake and sitting up in bed, eating breakfast slowly but able to refrain from vomiting. EEG did not reveal any brain abnormalities more severe than a moderate concussion. Bleeding was due to destroyed ear drums. Patient is still unresponsive to spoken cues or commands, but responds to gestures. He is able to wash his face on his own and change into a hospital gown while sitting but without further assistance. Attempts at written communication are slow; his handwriting is that of a child's and his reading comprehension is fair but not at adult levels. Mr. Barton has attempted to speak, and initially the nurses believed he suffered a stroke because of his poor verbal skills but the MRI did not reveal any abnormalities or bleeding in his brain. Mental retardation is a strong possibility. -Doctor David C. Hartford, M.D. 

\--------------------

Update: Further MRIs of Mr. Barton's inner ear reveals multiple fractures along both cochlea, the right much more severe than the left. Only extreme, focused, and specific attacks to the temples could cause such fractures or a dangerously loud sound. Mr. Barton indicated the latter. He is still showing signs of concussion at 2:15PM but his pupils are still responding well, he reported a headache with a score of "11" on the Wong-Baker Scale (indicated by drawing his own face on the chart with 11 written underneath). Audiologist contacted for hearing tests, although rudimentary testing (i.e. snapping fingers, calling his name, clapping) show possible hearing loss.-Doctor David C. Hartford, M.D.

\--------------------

Update: Patient transferred to hospital audiologist Dr. Whitney L. D'annunzio, Aud. D. Hearing test performed on Mr. Barton showed at least an 80% hearing loss in both ears with suspicion that the right ear has next to nothing in functioning hearing. Using written communication, he asked if he would need to wear hearing aids _again_ , but did not elaborate any further. In fact he did not probe or question his hearing loss but instead focused on the female that arrived at the hospital with him, asking when he could visit her in the ICU. A check from the attending ICU physician and he is cleared to see her; she is stable and responsive, and will be transferred out of the ICU within a few hours. He asked for her by name multiple times (Barbara Morse, although Mr. Barton calls her "Bobbi") and when asked why it was so urgent that he see her, Mr. Barton wrote that he intended to marry her.-Dr. Whitney L. D'annunzio, Aud. D.

\--------------------

Update: Mr. Barton is being discharged this morning at 9:30AM into the care of his employer along with Barbara Morse. Both were picked up this morning by a co-worker and taken to another facility for further treatment, although little intervention beyond monitoring is needed. Although Mr. Barton appeared somewhat depressed, his demeanor changed when he was with Ms. Morse and he immediately perked up. His patient file is concluded as of 9:32AM.-Dr. Whitney L. D'annunzio.

Signed by: Doctor David C. Hartford, M.D.  
Entered/Transcribed by: Jonathan Roberts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was definitely one of the more difficult chapters to write, and I'm sorry if it sounds clunky. It's also very short only because if you've ever read a doctor's patient notes they are nothing but scribbles and shorthand. More in-depth info in the next chapter :-)


	15. Chapter 15

I know I'm 28, but sometimes I feel like I'm 12.

Because when it comes to beautiful naked women in my general vicinity, my brain shuts down and rewinds back to puberty. My wife is stepping into the hot tub in our bathroom, and I'm just standing there slack jawed trying desperately to keep my hand off my junk. She's curvy where it counts, knows how to slink into the water to show off her ass, and drops into the water as she turns around so I just barely miss seeing her breasts. Should've known when I married another agent that she knew a thousand different ways to drive me insane.

Bobbi knows that without my hearing aids I wouldn't hear her voice anyway, so she crooks her finger and beckons me to the tub. I swear if there is a world record for fastest removal of clothing, I just broke it. Even before I step into the water, the room is humid and fogging up the mirrors. Her skin is warm and lightly misted, and with her hair tied back I have access to her slender neck. When I step into the water I sit against the side for a moment because in all honesty, the water feels fantastic and I wanted to enjoy it for a few seconds before she entwined her fingers in mine and pulls me over to her.

She wraps her arms around my neck and settles herself against me as if she's riding a horse side-saddle. "Hi there," I whisper, touching my forehead to hers. I want to kiss all of her, to touch every square inch of her body that she now shares with me. Her smile, totally innocent and slightly tired from the past few days, lights up my entire soul. And the way her nose slightly crinkles when she smiles is so cute it makes me crazy. If we spent the entire night just entwined like this, I would be a happy man.

But Bobbi has other ideas, apparently. She lowers her face somewhat so our lips barely touch, the slightest contact, as if her lips are made of fog. I reach between us and hold her chin so I can kiss her deeply for the first time since our impromptu wedding and I can feel her pulse racing wonderfully fast. Her cheeks are flushed, and I doubt it's from just the water alone. Our kiss becomes much more urgent and she angles herself so her breasts are against my chest. My hands are on autopilot as I lower one to massage her chest, her nipple growing firm at the touch of my thumb. In some distant part of my conscious awareness, I notice her hand creeping down my abs but don't pay any attention until she wraps her thin fingers around the head of my cock. It takes me by surprise, causing me to jump slightly and break our kiss. Her face registers concern, but I smile at her and take my hand away from her breast to overlap her hand with my own, stroking my shaft deeply. The warm water makes movement fast and smooth, and I'd like for her to play with my balls but the way she is sitting on my lap doesn't give her access to everything. 

I have to stop her before her hand speeds up and I break our kiss again. "Can I touch you?"

She doesn't immediately answer and I worry I didn't pronounce everything clearly, but after a moment she nods and barely spreads her legs for me. I don't immediately reach between her legs, instead I massage her round thigh until she's grinding her pelvis against my hand. The water hits her spot before my fingers do and her breath hitches against my lips. With one finger I just barely caress her most sensitive area, drawing circles around her clit then plunging deep inside her. Even though I can't hear it I can feel her moan against my chest as she raises herself slightly to nibble on my earlobe.

Bobbi uses the slight movement to wrap her legs around my waist. My hand never stops massaging her but I now have room to finger her and palm her clit at the same time. The friction of her bottom barely sitting on my cock is making the swelling painful, looking for any kind of relief. Her moans are growing more urgent and she's practically panting in sync with my fingers sliding in and out of her pussy. I want to make her scream, make her beg, make her call out to both God and my name. But she stops me before I can make her come, pulling her face back so I know to look at her.

"Not so fast," she says. I think. Something like that. Either way, when she shoos my hand away Bobbi settles herself so she can maneuver my cock to her entrance. Her smile is equally innocent and devilish, and the water makes entering her extremely easy. And for a moment we just sit there so she can adjust around me. With her legs wrapped around me she can hold on to the back of my head as I take one of her nipples into my mouth, her fingers gently squeezing my hair when my tongue makes her nipple hard again. Her skin is so smooth save for the small bumps around her nipple and the various scars she collected during her work. When she's comfortable enough around my cock, she relaxes her legs slightly only to tense up again so I thrust in and out of her by and inch or two. I shift us so her back is against the wall of the tub and use the leverage to bury my dick completely inside her, eliciting a deep moan that I swear comes from the base of her belly.

Unfortunately the water makes generating powerful thrusts difficult, and after a few attempts she sees my frustration. I nod towards the bed, hopefully making my intent clear, and when she nods she unwraps her arms and legs from around me. When I slide out of her, Bobbi pulls herself out of the tub in a quick movement and grabs one of the towels we tossed all over the floor. The idea that she is covering herself out of embarrassment doesn't make sense to me until she begins drying off somewhat so the bed doesn't get soaked. The way she dries of slowly for me, bending over so I can see her ass then momentarily playing with her clit makes my brain completely static and she has to take my hand and pull me out of the hot tub before I regain my senses and climb out of the damn tub myself. She tosses the damp towel to me and slinks over to the bed as I dry of as fast as humanly possible.

My balls feel heavy all of a sudden since their weight is not being displaced by the water. Just looking at the beautiful woman sitting on the bed keeps me hard and the head of my dick remains wet from pre-cum. When she spreads her legs for me again I inch over to the bed and back into her arms. In one quick movement she pulls me into her entrance again and drops me on the bed, my weight allowing me to finally plunge deep inside her, as deep as I can possibly go. Her legs entwine with my legs once again as I'm on top of her and holding myself up so I can pull myself out of her again. 

At first we start slow, getting used to each others heaviness again. Then when she is matching my slow thrusts with her own I speed up somewhat, moving faster and faster until I can feel my balls slapping against her ass. Even though I can't hear her pleading with me to make her come and I can't feel her chest against mine at the moment, the way her nails are digging in to my back tells me what she wants. Her eyes are closed in a mix of concentration and pleasure and she's gasping my name if I'm reading her lips correctly. She's matching her thrusts with mine, faster and faster, as deep as she can force herself and with so much urgency and _want_ and oh God Clint that's it oh oh yes please

She cries out from her bones as she contracts around me, her face relaxing as she comes against my cock. She slows her thrusts and mine until I am barely moving inside her and I kiss the most sensitive parts of her neck, but I'm not done yet. For just a split second I pull out of her and stand up, then use her legs to slide her to the edge of he bed. Even though I know she's finished, I check with her to see if I can continue. A nod from Bobbi and I tease her entrance with my cock once again, entering her slowly.

Standing up I can use her legs to pull her onto my dick and I can watch as my shaft disappears inside her and reappear in quick movements. I'm thicker at the base than at the tip and with each thrust I can feel myself building. In the circus and at SHIELD, places where there were so many people and constant movement, if you were able to have just a few minutes of private time you learned to jack off quickly. Being between the legs of a woman such as Bobbi Morse made my orgasm build even quicker.

My breath quickens and I know I'm grunting but I can only feel it in my chest. "Fuck," I moan unconsciously. "Fuck that's it, right there, I'm gonna come, Bobbi I'm gonna-"

I don't even finish my sentence before my balls tighten and it feels like my brain just exploded. I shoot my load inside her and I honestly could not tell how much I bricked; even when I pull out she grasps my cock and continues to draw more out of me. Bobbi turns over to lay on my stomach and even though I feel myself becoming soft again she lowers her head and takes my dick into her mouth, swallowing the rest of my cum and cleaning me off with her tongue. If I wasn't so spent already, the sight would've given me a raging boner almost immediately.

After I catch my breath and pull on a pair of boxers I lean over to kiss her again, completely void of lust but with as much love as I can show in a single kiss. When I reach over for my hearing aids, Bobbi stops me and shakes her head. Instead she pulls back the bed sheets so I can climb in and hold her to my chest. We don't need to speak. I don't need to hear her; I can understand her intent through her touch. As I play with her long blonde hair, she looks up at me and kisses my chin so I know to look down at her.

"I love you," she tells me a few times before I realize what she's saying.

"I hear you, Mrs. Hawkeye. Loud and clear."


	16. Chapter 16

She's 9 weeks old, according to the doctor, and about the size of a dime. Or maybe it's a "he," the due date isn't until October 12 so we have a while until we find out. Either way, I'm in love.

\------------------------

Nicholas Phillip Barton, 11 inches long, 14 ounces. Born 5:35AM, went home again at 5:48AM.

Love always, Mommy and Daddy


	17. Chapter 17

_[I swear I am not my father.]_

I just hit the big 3-0. And I should be happy, but right now I'm just annoyed more than anything.

For one, I'd rather be watching every single John Wayne movie in a row because that is what Coulson got me as a birthday gift even though I told him not to get me anything. And two, I haven't had anything to eat or drink in nearly 24 hours thank to the surgery that I'm about to go into. So instead of watching movies or eating I'm waiting for the anesthesiologist to get his ass in here so the doctors can fix my hearing. Again.

Coulson is also showing me pictures and diagrams and a lot of shit I just don't understand. If he would hold one of his pictures still for more than three seconds I could probably read his writing but he's going a mile a minute. The only thing I can gather is that he's showing me what the docs are going to do to my cochleas and how they are going to fix them. I know why he is so excited, his man-crush is next door being defrosted so he wants to go creep for a while. But that's not helping me much at all.

I know I should be happy that the docs can fix my hearing. I really should be. But since I got my divorce papers in the mail this morning I really don't give a fuck. To be honest, there's not a lot I care about anymore. My marriage barely lasted two years (one if you don't count the time that we actually separated), I destroyed my hearing for a woman who doesn't want me. The only positive is now I can drink from the coffee pot without her bitching at me about it. For fucks sake, we are ( _were_ ) the only two there, not like I was going to infect anyone with cooties or something. But whatever. I threw the papers away. If she wants a divorce, she can come to the fucking door and ask me herself.

I showed the papers to Coulson just to be sure I read them right. Maybe I just expected my marriage to be different. Maybe in some strange part of my brain I believed that I wasn't my father, that I would never make the same mistakes my parents did. I never hit Bobbi or hurt her physically. I did everything I could to do right by her. But she was still unhappy. Maybe I just believed in a fairy tale.

Whoever said I was allowed to be happy, anyway? I kill people for a living; I've used an arrow to carve through a guy's sternum and take out one of his lungs while he was still alive just because I needed information. You don't do fucked up shit like that without the universe exacting some sort of cosmic revenge on you. But I thought, and foolishly hoped, that being married and having a family would change things. And we could've done it, too. We could've played house. I was more than ready to quit everything and just be a dad to Baby Nick. All I needed to do was love him and be there for him, the exact opposite of what my father did to me and Barney. Hell I would've had an entire army of kids with her. I love each and every one of our non-existent, hypothetical children that we would have "some day," most likely never. We would spend hours naming them, everything from sensible to ridiculous, even though we knew they would most likely never happen. But I guess after Baby Nick went home she just didn't want to try anymore.

Maybe Barney was supposed to fix Mom and Dad, sort of like how we thought Baby Nick would fix Bobbi and I. Or maybe that's why they had me. I don't know. None of it was Baby Nicholas' fault though. Daddy could never put that responsibility on ou, baby. I'll die before I do so. Baby Nick will always be perfect to me, I just have to wait for a while before I get to hold him.

I don't know how it was for Bobbi, to feel him all snug and squirmy one day and then just...not. Then October 12th came and went, and that just made things feel much more permanent. He should be 18 months old now or so. He would be able to say 'daddy' by now.

Coulson finishes his impromptu presentation and puts his charts back on the mobile table. Whatever, man. All I got out of what he said is that I don't need to wear my hearing again when I wake up. I don't care anymore. If I don't wake up again that's fine with me.

Nat is busy dealing with some super genius douchebag so she isn't with me this time. Probably not fun, if her phone calls are any indication the guy sounds like an asshole. And Fury is dealing with something in New Mexico; Coulson was originally supposed to be in on it (and I was actually supposed to shoot the guy in question) but some scientists dug up Coulson's fossilized wet dream so we came back to HQ. I don't know why he's so excited, the guy is probably dead anyway. And I thought Barney had a crush on Captain America.

The anesthesiologist walks in just as I am almost sure Coulson will piss himself from excitement. She gives me a shot of some in my arm, then places a mask over my face and starts counting on her fingers. Coulson digs my hearing aids out of my ears before the medicine takes effect and the world is silent before I drift off.

Fuck all of this. I need a drink.


	18. Chapter 18

He's 31 in Midgard years. On Asgard he would still be a newborn.

Though going through his life via the Tesseract, he has the experience of an old man. The Tesseract chose its followers well; Agent Barton shows loyalty with such magnitude even Death would find it difficult to tear him away from those he loves. Loyalty to the pathetic Midgardians means nothing, though. An empty trait. Unnecessary.

But he has been an excellent disciple to the Tesseract and its purity. Everything asked of him, he has done with precision. He has no patience for Selvig, though. A military man is taught to forego much until the mission is completed. Once he has served the Tesseract and its purpose, though, it will be a shame when I must kill him. I considered keeping him alive for when I rule Midgard, but Agent Barton commands power and respect, and such competition would only create difficulty for my reign. I have lived too long in a shadow to allow anything to threaten my return to light.

The Tesseract fought with Agent Barton to gain control, he fought much harder than the other agents. But eventually Agent Barton gave in and accepted the Tesseract and its pure influence. Even so there remains traces of fealty to those Agent Barton previously served; the General Fury, Agent Romanov, Agent Coulson. But also loyalty to those Death has taken from him. A wife and child, parents, a brother who lived in Agent Barton's shadow. Yes, that must be why the Tesseract chose him, to stamp out any sort of power Agent Barton had over the brother, even if the brother has met his end. Such shadows are long.

He will serve the Tesseract well, such is obvious. Agent Barton told me weak points and advantages of General Fury and his Flying Fortress. I considered amassing more agents of SHIELD but doing so would be difficult and at this point redundant. Barton has told me everything he knows about the other agents, including Romanov. She would serve the Tesseract well if she were to submit. But as long as she holds some kind of influence over Barton she is better used as bait of some kind. Even under the Tesseract, part of Barton still clambers for her when I tell him how I would kill her. Pathetic.

Their loyalty for one another surpasses that of a family. Fury, Coulson, Romanov, and Barton each have murdered and destroyed in the name of some fictitious ideal that they each serve and often in brutal ways. They can try to justify such bloodshed but the Tesseract would expose their enjoyment of such acts. They must be the first to come down.

Once I have control of Midgard and dispose of my brother, then they can die. Agent Barton's pathetic Midgardian tools are no match for Mjõlnir's power, but Thor is fallible. If I can control the Hammer I would have no problems destroying the rest of Midgard, but the Tesseract has shown me that attempting to do so again is futile. A waste of time. Either way, I no longer need the Hammer. Not when the power of the Tesseract can easily negate it. 

Barton is strong but he is still a human, he is still easily broken. But the promises the Tesseract made to him for his loyalty and service are great. If I kept him alive once I control Midgard he would remain a loyal servant, but he is someone I cannot date to risk. Too many of the humans depend and care for him. And Barton was broken for some time, unable to hear as he grew. Such inability does not exist in Asgard. If he were a Frost Giant they would have abandoned him immediately. Such frailty has no place in realms outside Midgard. His caretakers all allowed him to live despite the inability to hear; they had plenty of chances to end his existence but humans are weak and sentimental. None took such chance. If I had a son broken in such a way I would have sent him to Hela myself. I would not dare claim an imperfect being as my own. 

The cube is within my reach, and Agent Barton will help me obtain it despite the fact that he is easily broken. Until then he is mine to do command. With the ability to see into his mind, I can tell he likes being submissive, to being subordinate so he does not have to think.

Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few days ago I went to a doctor and he put my entire left arm in a cast (almost up to my armpit!), that's why I really haven't been able to update anything in the past few weeks. Also grad school starts on Monday for me, so I will try to have the wrapped up by then. We are down to the final stretch!


	19. Chapter 19

He wasn't even 50.

That's all I can think about as I'm standing next to a dark casket in the nicest uniform I own. If it weren't for Coulson, I probably would not have been able to do math as basic as figuring out his age. And I'm staring at the gravestone to avoid the stares of the other agents; spaces are missing where dead agents would stand if they were actually here. Here and not six feet under the earth. The ones present know it's my fault they are gone.

SHIELD funerals happen often enough. But we have never had so many casualties at once, maybe a handful, but never a hundred. This many becomes a massacred statistic. And I did almost as much damage as Loki. Every mangled, twisted, and charred corpse I had to view at least once to see if I remembered killing each one. Some were indirect; they died due to an explosion on the Hellicarrier or when the base collapsed. But more than a few merely had small holes in their chest or their skull, small enough that the holes would be almost imperceptible if not for the arrow jutting out of a lifeless body.

I remembered each direct kill I made.

Luckily none of the families are here. I doubt I could stand here and face their families, especially Coulson's. I know he has one somewhere. No kids of his own but he told me once that his parents are still alive. Because of me they outlived their son. 

Nat told me while I was still in medical, I guess just in case I had a complete meltdown because of it. Internally I did. Externally I just sat there for a few minutes then went to bed. What else could I do? Nothing would bring him back, and by the time she told me it had already been a few days since he died. She woke me up a few hours later after I threw up in my sleep so I wouldn't choke to death, but even then as soon as I realized I was awake I had trouble breathing. Coulson's quarters were just down the hall from mine since we were at the same security clearance, but now he wasn't there. He wouldn't be there anymore, ever. Someone would come clean out the place in a few days after all his important possessions were confiscated. The mortician would have to come pick out one of Coulson's suits to bury him in. The rest would either be sold or donated. Coulson, all that remained of him, would be cleared out in less than a day.

His funeral is small. The rest of the Avengers are dispersed throughout the rows of attendants: Stark and his red-head sit off to the side, Rogers sticks out up front compared to other agents, Banner tries to hide in the back. Thor is the only one who doesn't show but he has more urgent issues in whatever dimension he lives in. Nat stands next to me, and I know she would hold me hand if protocol didn't dictate that we all stand stock-still. She's only held it for the past three days straight. Fury gives the standard spiel about commitment to duty and dying in the line of duty. How we were honored to have worked alongside him. How some died alongside him. The sacrifices Coulson made. Honestly I hardly listened to it. I just stood there and thought about the fact that nearly every relationship I ever had ended in a wooden box. 

When we were allowed be at ease, after Fury finished speaking and allowed everyone to disperse, I dropped into an empty chair and put my face in my hands. I would give up nearly anything in that moment not to be able to hear again, to not hear the whispers and the shit people are saying about me. As I rub my temples, someone sits down next to me.

"How long did you know him?" Rogers looks like the definition of soldier in his dress uniform. And I must look like a sandcastle that's about to be wiped out by the tide. But Captain America was the first one to trust me after the atomic bomb living inside my brain was defused. so I respect the hell out of the guy.

I rub the tears out of my eyes quickly and sniffle. "More than ten years, actually. I barely knew him though."

"He seemed like a solitary person."

"Yeah, yeah he was." I look around for a moment, scrambling to find something to say. "He taught me how to read."

Rogers nods and stands up slowly, as if he just remembered that he is nearly 100 years old. "So he gave you something to hold on to for the rest of your life. I doubt anyone else can say the same."

He's gone before I can think of anything to say, so I sit there for a while until everyone else leaves and only Nat is standing in the back, giving me space but close enough to catch me if I flip out again. When we are the only two remaining, I stand next to the casket again.

"Goodbye, sir. Thank you for being in my life."


	20. Epilogue

As soon as my gear is deposited in the armory, I head up to the debriefing room to start chugging away at the file-cabinet worth of paperwork I know I will have to do. It still takes me quite a while to do even the most basic of forms, but I'm improving with each mission. Slowly.

I sit down at a cold metal table and dig out the pen I swiped from Coulson's desk before the rest of the vultures got to everything. It's stupid but when I use this pen specifically but I feel smarter or something. I dunno, maybe it's because it was the pen Coulson always used to check over my work when he was still my tutor. I've replaced the ink in it three times.

When my third page is finished, just as I'm signing my name at the bottom and reaching for page four, the intercom buzzes in.

"Agent Barton, report."

"... _Coulson?_ "


End file.
